a literal metaphor

I can't predict the future--
not really, for all my playing
with tarot cards and prescient dreams--
and it's silly to think that anyone
can tell what the years may hold
before they come to pass.
That being said, I had my palm read last summer,
and she told me that the person I'm meant to love
was the one I was holding at arm's length.
But I was doing that with both of you--
one in fear of the post-grad breakup I saw as inevitable,
one in fear of rejection that also seemed inevitable.
So I took her advice to heart
and pulled you both closer
hoping against hope that my heart would sort it out.
It's silly to put faith in fortune-telling,
but I've done sillier things for much less reward
and risking it all for heart's desire isn't so silly, is it?

I've never been a jealous person,
not when it comes to relationships, anyways.
I like love to be shared, not hoarded,
but I never had that put to the test.
Maybe it'd be different if it had been anyone else,
but I don't know-- I wanted the right ones.
When I got to see my two favorite people
share their first kiss, I wanted to cheer,
knowing that love had just been multiplied--
not to mention it was the sweetest thing to witness.
I love to watch my lovers loving each other,
feeling joy rise within me that we're together,
that I get to share in this glorious mess,
that we'll make this work for the three of us.

My heart is not broken, merely obscured:
a full moon behind heavy rain clouds.
It's whole and radiant and removed from me,
shining brightly over the Pacific
and casting light on the Finger Lakes
but unseen from the Atlantic and the Hudson River.

My heart still beats, but quietly:
songs of joy muted to distant humming.
The melody still rings true, but in one part,
without the alto to harmonize,
missing the baritone counterpoint,
just a reedy soprano carrying a third of the tune.

My heart is waiting patiently:
a calendar with one red-letter day.
Days go by, crossed out one by one,
made bearable by letters signed "Yours,"
and never-long-enough phone calls,
coming slowly closer to the moment we'll meet again.